Companionless author departure for Southern Peninsula, destination: Hat Yai, Songkhla, Nakhon Si Thammarat, Phattalung, Krabi, Trang. The Thai summer heat of March, April, May yet to set in, he anticipates a marvelous tour, the Gulf War’s termination having reduced recent concern over conspicuous American descent into Muslim territory, though author’s itinerary, carefully designed, excludes the four southernmost, Islamic provinces. As with the first two excursions, stops between Bangkok and Hat Yai precluded by choice of transportation: the cool efficiency of overnight train.
For this, the longest trip, a mid-afternoon exit from Bangkok, laborious passage through Nakhon Pathom, Ratchaburi, viewed through dirty train window made smuttier by direct afternoon glare; onward to Petchaburi and Cha Am before the sun finally sets (at Hua Hin), by which time dinner has arrived, delicious tom yam kung (shrimp and lemon grass soup with mushrooms), kaeng neua (beef curry), fresh fruit. Author’s table is shared with a fellow traveler, a spinster-teacher from Chachoengsao College, who in response to three hours of questioning graciously expatiates on Thai culture. In broken English, then in Thai, she elucidates the five Buddhist injunctions of Theravada doctrine: no killing, no stealing, no lies, no sexual impropriety, no intoxicants. During lulls in conversation a guidebook serves as reinforcement and further stimulus, as well as offering a worldly corrective in the form of a wise monk’s advice to Thai businessman. Having protested that he was hungry (for meat), was forced to follow business ethics (stealing), had a taste both for women and for hard liquor, he was told that he should at least follow one of the precepts and tell no lies.
Abstemious, indigent, celibate author awakening to the bright light and clean environment of Hat Yai delights in early stroll from station to Nipaht-U-Thit No. 1, onward to Nipaht-U-Thit No. 2, thence to Niphat-U-Thit No. 3, past opening shops, friendly regards, on to inviting noodle stands, three of them sheltered under a single arcade, whose once red-painted concrete floor has been scuffed half black, whose cool interior, warm bowl afford a pleasant ambiance in which to study both world within and scene beyond: a family of ethnic Chinese lively about their breakfast, a turning tour bus in bright red and white advertising Penang as its destination. Above the second of the three stands, a grandfatherly portrait presides over all, white-bearded, stoic, serene.
Thence through more brightening streets, alleys and byways, past shop names and visual emblems, many of which include the swallow; past newly-built massage parlor; on up Phetkasem Road past opening store-fronts, through thickening pedestrian traffic (school kids with satchels, businessmen on their way to work, construction laborers pausing to review author’s passage). Onward to Songkhla bus stop for 30-kilometer trip with commuters to their (still-)early-morning destination. Like the landscape through much of this outing, nothing especially remarkable presents itself: roadside leafage, more-distant palm, drought-ridden grassy plain, occasional hills. The marks of southern affluence, though, are everywhere in evidence: coconut-, rubber-, tin-indebted prosperity, manifest in recently constructed houses, still-building condominiums, immaculate, yet-to-be-occupied commercial buildings. Construction runs on far beyond the city limits.
Heading eastward of the city center, the bus reaches a roundabout at Hat Yai’s outskirts, pursues its northeastward course to Songkhla. Once having reached the latter’s outskirts, however, it begins to maneuver this way and that, for its passengers’ convenience, till author, city map stowed in arm bag above him, loses his sense of direction. In sight of The Gulf of Thailand, conductor indicates that he should descend, before the bus points itself back into Songkhla proper. He does so, not quite sure whether he faces the Gulf itself or the Inland Sea (the two merging to surround the city). Happily lost, he traverses the final 200 yards up an unpopulated allée) bordered in casuarinas trees a-sway in the wind 40 feet above, to a newly built seaside walkway, punctuated with open pavilions. Taking a seat at one, opposite golf course, he basks in the world of surf and sand, relieved not only of Bangkok but the bustle of Hat Yai as well. Dories bob and dip, leading the eye forward to two gun-metal grey naval ships, at anchor before two nearby islands, abrupt upthrusts of karst. As author contemplates this sun-flooded, active scene, behind him the slap and slide of gentle plastic sandal on the beachside paving stones. A sideways glance reveals a maiden of eighteen seating herself opposite, opening lesson book (Library Use), settling in for study. Cautious inquiry reveals author’s whereabouts, location of sea-food restaurants. On a slip of pink paper directions are given, the most distinguished enterprise’s name ball-pointed in capital Roman letters. Brief pleasantries, mutual farewells, happy smiles. Within a matter of minutes he finds himself seated before la specialité de la maison: earthen-pot prawn with rice noodles.
A nearly-noon sun makes further progress afoot uncomfortable, certainly for the mile-or-so trip into Songkhla proper. Yet no sign of songthaew, bus, taxi. Presently, however, a motorcycle arrives, its driver in professional double jacket. Flagged down, fare negotiated, toward-town drive barely commenced, the litany of over-shoulder questions: “Where you from?” “Where you go?” “Speak Thailand?” A beat. “You want girl?” “No thanks.” “You want boy?” Hearty laugh. Traffic-disregarding smile from op, gold tooth gleaming.
Deposited at Hotel Songkhla, author enters its cool parterre, on past assembled sandals of hotel personnel, his gesture of removing cowboy boots waved aside. Registered, paid in advance, he is led upstairs by hotel’s matronly owner, past the curiosity of five younger staff, all in languorous recumbency. Room door opened, fan turned on, matron departed, author is beckoned by foreman busy across the hallway, he and crew of three or four adding a layer of white asphalt tile over yellowed base. As he pauses to observe quality of workmanship, ethnicity of work force, general disarray of unlaid tiles, the foreman gestures toward working girl, her right hand blackened with tar. “You want?” he inquires. She smiles, black locks cascading over blue-smocked shoulder. “Eighty baht,” he adds in Thai. The girl smiles again; then foreman laughs, author joining in the merriment. It’s all a joke.
Showered, naked on bed under ceiling fan, author studies guidebook map, Songkhla attractions, in contemplation of first outing. There is, it would seem, nothing to see in Songkhla but Songkhla itself. Dressed, down stair, through lobby, past a somnolent but watchful personnel, over threshold, past dozing motorcycle-taxi stares, past gold-and-red Chinese jewelry shop, past modern white-tiled bank, he finally pauses for dehydration control. As he patiently awaits his turn at stand, two, three, four pausing workers step to the street-side counter, each to be served a shot glass of rice whiskey. Attendant reaches for fifth glass; author declines, in favor of chilled liter of pure water.
The city of Songkhla itself is pretty, but the mid-day sun too hot. Returning, a second liter purchased, author re-ascends hotel steps for nap. Retiling continues unabated, workers much amused by his presence. Again he retires to study guidebook: Songkhla’s ethnic distribution, culture, history. A Malay element is patent, perhaps an Indonesian too. But the Chinese, identifiable by their facial rotundity and pallor of complexion, stop short of the spoken language. Here as elsewhere, China has instead been assimilated. “Adopted, absorbed or adapted,” in the guide’s phrase.
What, then, remains? Sun declining, author out again in search of Songkhla’s vaunted Portuguese element, said to be found in the architecture of Nakhon Nawk, a road running parallel to the Inland Sea’s shore. But little of interest here: a rather drab street with but a few European details. Up a noisy alleyway, however, he discovers returning fishermen, their baskets of still-moving plunder freshly packed in ice, their brightly colored vessels moored nose to nose, Everyone a-scramble to wash down, trade boot for sandal, scamper through the hosed-off wharf, head for home or whiskey. At 8:00 o’clock out once more for re-inspection: of the local singing club (nothing yet under way); of an open café (a somber clientele). Lights upstreet beckon farther, but the scene is a tennie scene – albeit very charming. Warmly welcomed in by two fifteen-year-old girls, seated author sips his Coke too, makes jokes, entertains his darling audience. Until, that is, the evening soaps come on at 9:00. His formerly lively companions are all now teary-eyed with stereotyped emotion; yet mother, aunt, cousin continue to welcome him, offer him a place before the tube, accept him by their inattention. Excusing himself, author sets out to return to hotel but again is waylaid. “I love you,” says a sixteen-year-old, seated at curbside with her girlfriend of seventeen. Once inside their hangout he amuses/is amused by a friendly group of six or seven coevals, they singing along to the jukebox. Before long he calls it a night, early bus for Nakhon Si Thammarat in mind.
Now the pattern repeats itself with merely a change of setting: The same indifferent landscape, a slightly longer journey, on into a slenderer but larger town, which extends along an axis from south to north, past modern golf course, zoo, monumental wat; through remnants of an older town to the new city center. Here the bustle is more contained, more intense than in dreamy Songkhla, Hotel Siam less curious about – though still attentive to – its newly arrived farang, who again makes his mid-day reconnaissance, takes early supper at Yong Seng restaurant (Chinese but not Chinese), notes the town’s seedy singing joints along the railroad line. Having made his choice, he is up and out at 9:00 for the town’s single basement club. An evening of off-key singing, gaudy Christmas-tree dresses, tip-seeking attention from waitresses. Finally asked to join a table of habitués, he engages in much intercultural commerce, all using pidgin English.
Day two reserved for high culture – the town’s name a Siamized version of the Sanskrit Nagara Shri Dhammaraja, City of the Sacred Dharma King – it proves exhaustible by 10:00 am. Thousand-year-old Wat Mahathat, touted as the South’s Wat Po, is little more than a pile of stone, its “forest of chedi” arranged in remarkably unimaginative redundancy. A little farther down the road one comes upon the graceful open-air branch of the National Museum, where author, having quickly done with Wat Phra Na as well, arrives too early, is nonetheless welcomed, then accompanied, by a delicate 28-year-old curator in flower-print dress, who slides unobtrusively from room to room, turning lights on and off for the museum’s only guest. Studiously he rehearses and re-rehearses the time-honored sequence: Dvaravati, Lopburi, Srivijaya; Chieng Saen, Sukhothai; Ayutthaya, Rattanakosin. In proper awe he stands before Pallava remains but is only really charmed by a native collection of canes. Then back into songthaew, where faces of fellow-travelers look strangely correspondent with those of the ancient dynasties. By the time he has arrived at city center again the decision has been made: onward at once to Phattalung.
Bus’s appearance coincident with his impulse, he is one of the first to board. Before long a whole family joins him: uncle, aunt and cousin, all relatives of a 25-year-old who slinks into the seat next author, offers him unripe mango with salty sugar, inquiring as to his destination. Much affectionate, curious regard from the other family members, dark-skinned, gorgeous, in manner as well as mien. Before long we are off through ragged countryside, have begun our ascent to the mid-peninsula ridge, slowing as the grade increases. It is past 11:00 o’clock, the air heavy and warm. Nodding, the girl at author’s elbow begins to doze, both hands in lap where her fingers, their nails in purple polish, grasp and twist the ends of a white tee-shirt, which scantily cover the crotch of silken purple tights. Passengers continue to board, filling available places. The bus seat, barely large enough for two westerners, customarily accommodates three Thais, especially when bus has reached its complement. Someone asks for a seat; the girl moves over. As she falls asleep, her head comes to rest on author’s shoulder, remaining there till she awakens half an hour later. As she prepares to debark at Phattalung, a smiling uncle makes a jocular remark, her male cousin another. In lively contretemps, the fully awakened girl slaps each on the forearm, turning to flee with a smile.
Culture in Phattalung consists of two mountains, one with a hole in her chest, one with a cleft head, said to be of another, not-too-distant mountain the wife and mistress, who fought with one another over his adultery. It is time to seek other edification. Accordingly, author reconnoiters the town at midday, settling into dusky Paradise Café to relish its stale smoky atmosphere, the desultory private banter of bar and waitpeople. Luncheon plate and soft drink ordered, marking time till they arrive, he observes a rat, rather large, as it scurries from table to table. The waiter, also one of the club’s singers, encourages his later return, hoping against hope for a mythical Las Vegas introduction. Agreement to be back by 9:00 struck, author returns to the Universal Hotel for mid- afternoon nap.
Awakening just before sunset, he heads north on foot, to watch homecoming commuters as they disembark at railway station. Crossing over the tracks, he heads on out of town in search of natural solitude. Instead, 200 yards downroad he is greeted by “hello”s from over a fence, waitresses from the Singh Coffee House enticing the foreigner thither. Their only lively catch of the day (the week? the month?), he is regaled with attention, by a nineteen-year-old mother of two kids, by a sullen girl of twenty who skeptically seats herself opposite, by the robust 45-year-old manager, doubtless the aunt/cousin of everyone else in attendance. Author, in plain view of mountain-with-hole-through-its-chest, inquires of nineteen-year-old who did it. “I did,” says she. ”Before you were married?” author inquires. Either she doesn’t know the story well or offers an interesting variant. Badinage continues for a while, diminishing only as author persists in ordering soft drinks instead of whiskey. As the flickering holiday lights take over from diminishing natural rays, he moves to depart. His normal tip, for slightly inflated prices, draws a dour response. Confident in having provided as much entertainment as he himself has been offered, he leaves with equanimity.
Darkness has fallen. At 9:00 o’clock he sets out again, for the Paradise Café. Action at last underway, a slinky 30-year old singer performs her echo-enhanced ballad, lighting effects turning the word “Paradise” and butterfly emblem on and off. Prices too high for comfort, songs too mechanically sultry, author opts for quest of livelier scene. After one or two false starts he locates the scene: a youthful singing club, where semi-permeable screens have been set up for privacy between tables in this all too intimate town. Moving instinctively to the front row, he seats himself just under the portico’s overhang, in plain view of stage but also of starlight above. Here at Club Rama only the stench of adjacent urinal distracts one from a scene of cosmically amative spirit. Each singer displays her distinctive merits, the band-members appropriately reinforcing each. Singly they sing; in pairs; in solo, accompanied by gourd and tambourine. Before long, an affable, if slightly overweight, hostess introduces him to a lipsticked male singer, who clearly has fallen in love. Seated beside author, his diamond earring gleams with refracted red, blue and yellow stage light. ”I like men,” he pronounces. “I like women,” author retorts and proceeds to review the singers who, at his request, the hostess dutifully introduces one by one. “I don’t like her,” says the pleasantly outspoken gay. “Neither do I,” says author. “No heart,” he adds. A great meeting of minds. Gay asks author where he is spending the night. “In the Universal Hotel,” he replies. But gay does not recognize either its English or its Chinese name. Thanking each girl in turn, author gives hostess a generous tip and departs. It has been a magical moment, or series of moments: each popular song in the repertoire of a dozen – all familiar in turn from dozens of earlier imitative renditions – here rendered with individuality by half a dozen stars.
Up again for early departure, author finds that bus for Trang stops directly in front of the Universal Hotel. Not yet in sight, its absence tempts him to steal away three doors down to stand silently before a pancake griddle, whose lively 30-year-old operative, a three-year-old daughter in her skirts, looks up understandingly; thinks nothing of it as author opens refrigerator door to withdraw soft drink; holds up egg for his nod, cracking it into already sizzling dough. Seven-year-old son makes appearance to stare harmlessly at stranger; is told not to do so, mother’s admonition sweet but firm. The egg-laden pancake arrives, sugar on the side. Soft drink, pancake finished, author arises, extends the appropriate bill, as mother’s hand in apron pocket, with a dance-like response, counts out appropriate change. As the bus to Trang arrives, another glance of loving communication.
The driver, aged 65, is cautious, expert, a little senile; on the motor’s cowl sits an older woman who seems less conductress than Grandmother Personified. Each time she passes up aisle she gently touches author’s knee. Above the windshield, above both driver and moneytaker’s heads, a row of extraordinary photographs: famous guru, famous Buddha image, famous temple, each flecked with two, three, four patches of thin gold leaf, each attached with an obvious devotion.
Trang arrived at, its streets are congested, result of municipal labor strike. Patiently we make our way to the train station/bus terminal, where Trang bus pulls in next to Krabi bus, facilitating author’s transfer. We set out at once, the foreigner shown by youthful mustachioed conductor to the one seat at back of the bus with sufficient leg room. Soon, however, a carton is deposited, a bag, two more parcels. He must withdraw his feet even farther, as a brand new “Cosmic” mo-ped is brought aboard, its owner taking his seat side-saddle atop it, conductor arriving to thread a sarong through seat strap and about the bike’s handlebars. It will be a bumpy ride to Krabi. Not having studied the map quite carefully enough, author is also unprepared for the length of the journey – two hours and a half. Seats filled, aisles packed, yet more produce brought aboard, he finds himself pushed against, sat upon, leant over, squeezed, as the heat of day increases. But at least he has a seat. By the time of arrival at Krabi many weary travelers have departed, disappearing into crowded market squares, descending at smaller villages, stopping to turn their backs on bus for the twenty-foot walk to threshold of single wooden, single brick dwelling. The conductor, red turban tied about his forehead, manages all with great friendliness, solicitude, aplomb. Krabi, aside from its downtown collection of tourist agencies, is a place of character in its own right: Muslim settlement, upper-middle-class hillside homes, large municipal buildings. Everywhere a cheerful delight prevails. At the guest house counter, behind it, seated in lobby chair, three of the loveliest girls in the world entertain themselves along with all comers in animated, sympathetic comment on everything that occurs within their purview.
After an early evening stroll author heads out for the clubs, investigated by daylight, now revisited to watch as they metamorphose, some subtly, some dramatically. The Lipstick, inviting by day, has only two occupants, both with dour expressions. The singing club, not yet ready to receive clientele in earnest, will require a later visitation. And so, on to the town’s pizzeria. Its owner, a Florentine, the only one seated within at table, is first mistaken in his modesty for a customer. Before long he is invited to join author for conversation. He has been in Krabi for three years. After a false start at guest-house management, unremunerative book stall, he has returned to his earliest professional experience, makes a passable pizza – blending Italian with Thai expectations – but has yet, after a year of operation, to turn a profit. Things will get better. Intelligent, affable, his only problem in Krabi is loneliness, in a culture where the foreigner, even the fluent Thai speaker like himself, finds it impossible to make a real friend among the natives.
Agreeable conversation concluded, author returns to “nightclub” scene, which in fact turns out to be the town’s “disco,” a combination singing-club/all-purpose dance hall: middle-aged couples, teenies, demi-monde, all unsuccessfully thrown together by necessity. Two minutes suffice for decision to leave.
Early-morning farewell to Krabi, as songthaew arrives for two-mile trip to main-highway intersection. The bus for Trang has only begun to load. Identifying another European gathering breakfast necessities at the plaza’s stalls, author times his approach so as to coincide with his fellow traveler’s. The encounter is somewhat awkward. Only gradually does it emerge why: this Swiss tradesman’s English is rudimentary, confidence in conversation lacking. In an almost equally halting German (grown rusty over 25 years), author begins afresh: now a more serious exchange. This modest, sympathetic man, a roofer by profession, had in the last year taken his first serious fall. A six-month rest prescribed, he flew directly to Thailand, his recovery now nearly complete. Author having long ago stopped overnight in the roofer’s native Berne, we at least have something in common. But before long both parties agree that conversation be allowed to lapse. As all this transpires, the back seat of the bus, where in search of leg room the foreigners again have positioned themselves, has filled to capacity: three standing monks, three mothers seated with their toddlers and young school-age children. Now a young couple boards, a skinny father with six-month infant in arms, a delicate eighteen-year-old mother, two-year-old daughter in hers. More space is made, crushing us to the limit. Before long, as restriction of space leads to more and more discomfort, author arises to take his place among the monks. Trang re-attained, he welcomes a long promenade through its station-adjacent streets, where he samples Chinese and Muslim cuisine, lingers over pastry and soft drink with the international pages of the Bangkok Post.
The return train to Bangkok leaves early (2:00 pm), its air- conditioned comfort a relief from the rising southern warmth. Québécois board, conduct a pleasantly neutral inquiry. At 7:00 pm, dinner done, author retires for a deep, uninterrupted slumber, awakening at 4:30 to finish the last pages of a guidebook to Southeast Asia. At 5:30, a final conversation, with a twenty-six-year-old San Francisco rock-and-roll roadie, one-sided in its sympathies, but a welcome conclusion to a satisfying journey.